


all the pieces fall

by reystars



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Rittenhouse, well it started as a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reystars/pseuds/reystars
Summary: Ten snapshots of Jessica Logan's complicated life.





	all the pieces fall

**I. She’s five years old and sitting in the lobby of a hospital.**

Jessica’s mother gently pulls her hand away from where she’s nervously tugging at her blonde hair. Her father had sternly instructed her to leave her blanket in the car, the thing she normally tugged at. So now she's pulling on the ends of her locks, the fluorescent lights of the hospital buzzing, staring at the shiny, plastic floor. Her feet don’t even come close touching the ground and she’s swinging her tiny shoes, waiting for her brother and the doctor with the funny haircut to come out of the room.

On one side, her mother is twisting her hands together, over and over again. On the other, her father is stone. His face is expressionless. Jessica looks up at him.

“I’m thirsty,” she says.

He doesn’t seem to hear her. She tugs on her mother’s sleeve.

“I’m thirsty,” she says again.

Her mother glances down at her, distracted.

“There’s a drinking fountain over there,” she says.

Jessica hops down, her plastic shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she makes her way over to the drinking fountain. Standing in front of it, still pulling the ends of her hair, she realizes with a frown that she can’t reach it. She stands on her tippy toes, placing both small hands on it, trying to lift herself up.

“Here, let me help you,” a kind voice says.

Jessica turns. There’s a pretty woman with red hair standing behind her, wearing a trench coat. Jessica takes a step back and the woman lifts her slightly so she can reach the water. As soon as she’s done drinking the woman sets her down and Jessica wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Thank you,” Jessica says. Then makes sure to inform her, “I’m five.”

The woman smiles. “You seem very smart for your age.”

Jessica looks past the woman at where her parents are sitting, still lost in their own world, not even noticing her conversation with this stranger.

“Do you love your brother?” the woman asks her.

Jessica thinks it’s a silly question, but nods. Kevin is only two and not a lot of fun to play with yet but her parents promise her that he’ll get fun and not as loud someday. She hopes it’s someday soon.

The woman crouches next to her so they’re face to face. Her hair is shiny and her eyes are nice and she’s holding out a lollipop so Jessica takes it and listens as she talks.

“My name is Emma,” she says. “I’m with Rittenhouse. We’re here to help you. We’re here to save him.

* * *

 

**II. She’s ten years old when they buy her her first gun.**

Emma has been a constant in her life since that day at the hospital. She never seems to age, and sometimes is wearing the same clothes even when it’s months between visits. Sometimes she has the blonde woman, Carol, with her. But she’s always around, waiting, watching.

Emma finds her after her first baseball game. Her knees are bruised and her messy blonde hair is sticking out of her baseball cap, red dust smudged on her face. Her parents are still in the stands, chatting up the coach’s husband, Kevin sitting on her father’s lap, munching on an ice cream bar.

She’s ducked around the back of the dugout to get a drink from the lukewarm water fountain when Emma steps around the corner.

“Hi Emma,” she says, leaning over the drinking fountain, holding her blonde hair so it won’t fall into the water. 

“You did great,” Emma says with a smile. “You’re pretty coordinated.”

Jessica straightens up. “Thanks.”

“I got you a present.”

Emma pulls the gun out of her purse by the front barrel, but Jessica still jumps back a little bit at the sight of it. Emma is still smiling comfortably, but Jessica still feels electrified by the sight of it. Her parents won’t even let her near the rifle their father keeps locked in a safe in their basement.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says. “I’ll teach you how to shoot it.”

Jessa steps forward, hesitant, and looks at it closer. It’s silver and it looks more advanced than any of the guns she’s seen her dad or uncles use.

Emma slips it back into her bag.

“It’s for self defense,” she says. “You know that Rittenhouse is highly secretive for a reason. There’s lots of people, really bad people, that want to hurt us. Would want to hurt you because we helped you.”

Jessica hears her mother calling for her in the distance.

“But I promise I won’t let that happen,” Emma says. “I’ll teach you how to protect yourself.”

* * *

 

**III. She’s fourteen years old when they finally tell her what her mission truly is.**

She’s been working at her grandpa’s auto shop all summer and she’s bored to death. She doesn’t mind spending her time underneath cars, oil smudged down her arms, and she’s actually a pretty good mechanic, but she only took this job because Emma had told her to, and she’s been itching to finally join her and get the _real_ work started. But it’s been almost two years since she last saw Emma or anyone from Rittenhouse. She’s starting to worry that they changed their mind, or forgot about her.

Her parents don’t know about the gun she has hidden in her bed frame.

Emma had told her that she was important. Important to Rittenhouse, important to the future. When she thinks about it, pride swells in her chest. They wouldn’t forget about her. They couldn’t. That meant something.

She’s sitting on top of one of the old tables in the back, drinking a Coca-Cola, her dirty sneakers swinging, staring out at the passing traffic when she sees a flash of red out of the corner of her eye.

She turns her head to see Emma standing there.

“Emma!” she shouts, jumping down off the table, barreling over and engulfing her in a hug. She’s _missed_ her. Emma laughs and hugs her back.

“Hey kid,” she says, finally pulling away, putting some space in between them so she can see her face. She tilts Jessica’s chin back as she smiles.

“Your braces came off fast,” she says.

Using the side of the table as a bottle opener, Jessica opens a coke with a crack and a hiss. She hands it to Emma. A satisfied smile spreads across her face after she takes a sip, climbing up to sit on the table next to her.

“Mmmm,” she says. “They just don’t make it like they used to.”

Jessica feels her pulse leap like it always does when Emma talks about the future. About time travel. They promised her that she’d get to try it someday. She’s spent hours pouring over history books, trying to decide where she’d like to go most. To help save the world.

Emma pulls something out of her pocket.

“I think you’re old enough now to know why we chose you. Why you’re special.”

She hands the photo to Jessica, and she unfolds it. It’s a man, probably in his late twenties. He has striking blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and an intense gaze, almost challenging the camera. She can see army tags hanging around his neck. Jessica runs her thumb down the side of the photo absentmindedly. He’s handsome in distant way, like a film star.

“Who is he?” Jessica asks.

“Wyatt Logan,” Emma explains. “Your future husband.”

* * *

 

**IV. She’s fifteen years old and she absolutely hates Texas.**

It’s hot, and dusty, and dry, and boring. The sun is always too bright, the sky is always devoid of clouds, and the roads stretch across the desert like dirty ribbons baked into the ground.

This is the year she’s meant to meet Wyatt Logan, and she’s standing outside her new high school, marveling at the fact that it looks more like a prison than anything else.

She’s squinting, the sun intrusively bright as usual, and she’s trying to muster the energy to even care about school at all with the knowledge that her future is secured with the most powerful organization in the world anyway.

And then she sees him.

He walks out of the building, wearing an worn out T-shirt and loose jeans, and even though he looks about 10 years younger than the only picture she’s seen of him, it’s unmistakable. Cosmic, almost, is the feeling that floods her body when she sees him.

Without meaning to, she freezes. She has her instructions clearly in her mind, she knows exactly what she’s supposed to do, supposed to say, but she can’t move.

And as it turns out, she doesn’t have to. He makes eye contact with her, a smirk already the default on his lips, and walks over to her.

“Hey,” he says. His smile is irresistibly charming. So is his slight southern accent.

“Wyatt Logan,” he says as an introduction. He's looking at her curiously, intensely. She'll soon learn that there's not much about him that  _isn't_ intense. But under his gaze, something feels right.

This is the first moment that Jessica realizes playing pretend might be more complicated than she thought.

* * *

 

**V. She’s seventeen years old when he proposes to her.**

She's too young, she _feels_ too young, but they're laying on a pile of blankets in the back of his pickup truck under the stars and he's staring at her adoringly with his blue eyes and she knows, she _knows_ she can't say no.

They've been through a lot, these past two years. Wyatt thinks she doesn't know about the drug running, but she does. He thinks she doesn't know about his asshole father, but she does. She wonders why lying comes to him as naturally at breathing but when she looks at him, she doesn't see a liar, she sees a survivor. She sees a man who wants to join the army just like his grandfather, a man who wants to buy them a beautiful house with a white picket fence. She sees an idealist who can't see more than two feet in front of his face. She sees someone she's accidentally fallen in love with.

It terrifies her.

"So?" he asks, rolling over onto his stomach, running his finger down her arm. It makes her shiver slightly, and she keeps her eyes on the sky.

"We're so young, Wyatt," she says, and he interrupts her with a kiss that she doesn't exactly hate. "We have nothing but time. There's no need to rush."

He kisses her collarbone, and she no longer feels like making excuses.

"I don't want to wait another second to call you my wife."

He says it so truthfully, so earnestly, that her heart tightens. In moments like this it's hard for her to remember why she's here, and what she's doing. She's playing the long game, she _knows_ this, but she finally settles her eyes on his and gives in, for just a moment, to the fantasy.

"After graduation," she concedes, and he grins his cocky grin and wraps her in his arms. As she listens to his steady breathing, her head on his chest, she imagines what it will feel like to have to kill him someday. She wonders if she'll be able to do it.

* * *

 

**VI. She's eighteen years old, and it's her wedding day.**

She's in the back room of a tiny church, looking at herself in the full length antique mirror, the beautiful white dress cascading on the ground. She's alone, just for the moment. Her mother's taking care of a last-minute flower issue, and as she runs her hand over the soft white satin fabric, the golden Texas sun shining softly through the window, she feels almost dizzy with happiness. Tucking a hair behind her ear, she hears Kevin's familiar laugh just outside the door. He's only fifteen, but Wyatt asked him to be his best man anyway, and he's been loving every second of it.

Jessica is adjusting her (very traditional, mother requested) veil when the door cracks open.

"Did you work it out?" she asks, assuming it's her mother with news on the garlands. She doesn't realize she has a huge smile on her face until she turns and it immediately drops. It's Emma standing there, arms crossed, serious as the grave.

Jessica tries to quickly plaster the smile back on, but the air has chilled.

"I was hoping you'd make it," she tries. It falls flat.

"Congratulations on your big day," It's almost sarcastic, the way Emma bites out the words. There's a fresh bruise on her face and fury in her eyes. "I thought I'd bring you a wedding gift."

She hands, almost _shoves_ something into Jessica's hands. It's a manila folder and when she opens it, all that's inside is a worn, handwritten page that looks like it’s been torn from a journal. Jessica doesn't recognize the handwriting. Taped to the page is a newspaper clipping. Carefully, slowly, Jessica unfolds it. Immediately, she feels like the wind has been knocked out of her.

> _Soldier's Wife, 28, Found Strangled to Death_

It's her photograph.

"What is this?" Jessica asks. It comes out as a whisper.

"I've been saving it just in case I needed to remind you why you're here," Emma says. Her voice is curt, blunt. "To remind you that your _husband_ out there is the reason why without Rittenhouse, you'd die in a few years."

Jessica can't catch her breath. Slowly, terrified, she pulls up the newspaper clipping to read the handwriting underneath.

> _Wyatt told me the truth about what happened the night Jessica disappeared. They were at a dive bar in San Diego called the Pelican Lounge when they ran into an old boyfriend of hers. He was jealous, drank too much, and as they drove home they had a major fight. Started shouting. She told him to stop the car and got out right there on the side of the road. Wyatt drove away. It only took him twenty minutes to calm down but by the time he came back, she was gone. She never came home. They found her body—_

Jessica tears her eyes away from the paper. She can’t bear to read any more. Blinking away tears, she hands the folder back to Emma, making her face as even as she can.

"Who wrote that?" she asks. The handwriting is a woman's, the description emotionless, like a historian idly describing an important event. Not her _life_. Her  _death_.

"It doesn't matter," Emma says. "What matters is that you remember why you're here. And what Rittenhouse did for you."

As if almost on cue, there's a knock on the door. It's Kevin.

"Jess?" he calls through the door. "Are you ready?"

Emma gives her a pointed look.

"I'll be out in a second," Jessica calls. Her hands are shaking.

When she walks down the aisle, a beautiful smile elegantly crafted on her face, she can barely even look at Wyatt. Despite the tears in his eyes, the overwhelming joy shining out of his face, the sounds of her mother sniffling in the first row, she feels the steel cage wrapping around her heart.

* * *

  **VII. She’s twenty-two years old, and marriage is harder than she ever thought it would be.**

Wyatt’s been in the army almost three years now. She supported him when he enlisted, encouraged it, knowing all along that’s where he would end up. And that he’d be good at it too. She was surprised, at first, at how much she missed him when he would leave.

But then he comes back from a summer in Afghanistan and he’s different. He’s moodier, drinking more and more despite swearing that he’d never follow in his son-of-a-bitch father’s footsteps. He’s lying to her, too, about other women. And she knows there’s other women.

She tries to focus on the mission, her _purpose_ , with Rittenhouse but it doesn’t take away the sting of knowing what’s happening when he’s not around. She takes care of the home—their home—and takes a job as a bartender, working nights to pick up extra cash. It’s only supposed to be temporary.

Cleaning out muggy glasses, the stinging scent of alcohol permeating the air, it’s hard for her to feel like she’s making a difference to the universe.

But Emma is there. She’s there often, stopping by, reminding Jessica of how important she is. How this is all temporary, and soon enough she’ll take her place in Rittenhouse like she’s always meant to. She won’t be cleaning glasses forever.

And Jessica keeps her mouth shut, ignoring the long brown hair she finds on his coat, the scent of perfume that’s not hers, the late nights and the lies. She forgives and forgives and forgives, feeling a piece of herself chip away with every tear soaked kiss.

* * *

 

**VIII. She’s twenty-eight years old, and this is the night she’s supposed to die.**

She’s been waiting for this day for ten years, and it’s all happening exactly how Emma said it would. They’re visiting Wyatt’s grandfather in San Diego. He mentions a dive bar that his buddy recommended to him, the Pelican Lounge. The moment she hears him say it out loud she goes numb. But she smiles, flips her hair over her shoulder, and says, "Yeah, sounds like fun."

That night she puts her earrings on with shaking hands. She tries to enjoy her drink, but she can barely sip it without feeling nauseous. And there’s no surprise when they run into someone they used to go to high school with, someone Jessica may have kissed once or twice before she started dating Wyatt. And who knows what sets him off—a lingering glance, too familiar of a touch—but he starts drinking. More than he should.

Jessica places a hand on his arm.

“Babe, you have to drive.”

He jerks his arm away from her.

“Stop trying to mother me, Jess, you’re always trying to mother me.”

His voice is unbearably loud and people are starting to stare.

She finally convinces him to walk out to the car, and that’s when the fight really begins. He refuses to hand her the keys, climbs into the driver’s seat of the same truck he's been driving since high school. It's hard to see him as the same person sitting there. Windows down, blowing Jessica's hair into her eyes, the sounds of the cars speeding past, Jessica can’t help but get caught up in it, her emotions choking her as she spits out things she’s kept tucked away deep inside.

“You’re just like your father, you know.”

It’s the one thing she doesn’t yell, just speaks in such a low, guttural voice. She doesn't know where it comes from. She doesn't mean to say it. But she does mean it. Wyatt slams on the breaks, jerking the truck over to the shoulder of the road.

“Get the hell out of my car.”

Her body goes icy cold. She stares at him, he’s breathing heavily, almost unrecognizably angry. Her knuckles are white, balled into fists in her lap. The worst part of it all is that despite everything she knows, she wants to get out of the car anyway. She wants to storm off. She wants him to see her twisted, mangled body in the bushes two weeks later, if that's what it will take for him to see how he's making her feel. The rawness of the thought makes her feel like she's been punched in the gut.

A beat.

“No,” she finally says.

Wyatt is staring straight ahead, trying to get his anger under control. It’s clear that he’s still furious. But after a few more seconds he throws the car into gear and pulls it back onto the road. They spend the rest of the drive in complete silence.

It’s not until they’re pulling into their driveway that Jessica finally breathes.

* * *

 

**IX. She’s twenty-nine years old when she files for divorce.**

It’s on Emma’s orders, really, but the sense of relief she feels is genuine. So is the flood of guilt that follows. But it’s not like they haven’t tried. They’ve been working with a counselor for months, trying to talk through their issues.

Wyatt won’t budge, won’t open up, and Jessica is still keeping the biggest secret between the two of them anyway. It’s all an act, a charade, but there’s still no reason why Wyatt should look so shocked when she slides the papers across the table at him.

“Jess, please don’t do this,” he says. And the way he says it is so genuine that for a moment she forgets all the shit he’s been putting her through. Then she drops the pen on the table. Her bags are already packed, she’s staying with Kevin and his wife for the time being.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she says. She picks up her duffel bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “I can’t be married to a state secret. I can’t keep doing these lies.”

Wyatt’s not even looking at her, his head is in his hands, his elbows on the table. He looks defeated. It’s almost sad.

“Goodbye, Wyatt,” she says.

She leaves her key behind. He doesn’t try to stop her.

* * *

 

**X. She’s thirty years old when Emma tells her that it’s finally time.**

She’s back at her job as a bartender. She’s had no contact with Wyatt for two months. He’s seemed to disappear off the face of the planet but, as Emma explains to her over a whiskey on the rocks, he’s gone into hiding after a blow to Rittenhouse.

“Him, the pilot and the _princess_ ,” Emma sneers, finishing off the whiskey. “They’ve been real pains in my ass. But when they get back from this trip, it’ll be the first time he’s seen you since you died. Don’t be surprised if he acts strange.”

She pushes the glass back toward her across the mahogany bar and Jess stacks it on the rest of the dirty glasses hidden out of sight of the customers. She’s thrumming with energy. Her entire life has been leading to this moment.

“Your goal is to get in the bunker, gather intel, and when the moment is right, take out as many as you can.”

All she needs to do now, though, is send a simple text. _Have you signed the papers yet?_

So she does. Then she waits.

And happy hour is about to start, she’s yelling at the new guy and waiting for Mark to show up with the four extra cases she’s ordered for grad night when she hears him say her name.

“Jessica?”

She turns around, immediately, instinctively. Not happily. He’s standing there in complete and total shock.

“Oh my god, you’re actually here.”

She’s holding a clipboard in her arms, actually feeling a little more irritated and inconvenienced than anything else. She’s expecting him to do what he always does, run his hands through his hair and avoid eye contact and make excuses. So many excuses.

But then he doesn’t. He walks forward, tears in his eyes, and pulls her into a hug. Wraps his arms around her so tightly, so passionately, so close that she can actually physically feel the pounding of his heart.

His breath moves his hair as he repeats himself. “You’re actually here.”

That’s all it takes for her to realize that this is not the Wyatt that she’s married to. He’s not the same man at all. This is someone completely different, someone she’s never met and can barely even recognize. This is the Wyatt that, in another world, moved heaven and earth for her. The man who stole a _time machine_ to try and bring her back.

Before she gets too overwhelmed she pulls away from the hug, spotting the keg delivery man. She shouts at him to bring her the rest of the order and turns away from Wyatt, busying herself with whatever she’d been doing before. The most completely insignificant things. Trying to snap back into it. She can almost hear Emma scolding her in her head.

“When are you off?” she hears him say. “You wanna have dinner?”

The way that he says it actually helps her gain her footing again.

She whips around.

“You ignore my texts for two months and now you want to have dinner?” she says.

They stumble through an awkward conversation. She emphasizes that she’s been working doubles while implying that he’s been off with some other woman. Something flashes over his face when she says it and she realizes it might actually be true. But she agrees to meet up with him when she’s done with her shift.

And he’s just staring at her, dumbstruck, like he’s never seen her before. Like he thought he’d never see her again. It’s so tender, so soft, so very unlike the Wyatt Logan that she knows that she absentmindedly shouts at one of the newer employees and brushes him off.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, and her almost looks like he’s going to stay but he doesn’t. He leaves.

And Jessica slips into the back room, leaning against the concrete wall, trying to catch her breath. Then she straightens up, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She’s on autopilot as she dials the numbers she’s had memorized for years. The dial tone abruptly stops, she hears the click on the other line. She doesn’t wait for Emma to speak.

“He came here,” she says. “We’re meeting up after my shift. It all happened exactly how you said it would.”

She feels numb.

**Author's Note:**

> Jessica did mention that Emma and Carol came to her parents (which should have been in both of their lifetimes) so there's got to be some finagling with the time machine there. Suspend your disbelief. This is how it happened lol.


End file.
